Shield and Banner
by Blue Maple
Summary: Cap is called out on a dangerous mission, only to discover that, thanks to Barton and Romanoff, he must go in effectively unarmed. In the meantime, the two lovebirds are off on a magical adventure that only two master assassins can appreciate. T for now, M later.
1. Chapter 1

Bruce Banner sits cross-legged on the battered sofa, eating a grilled cheese sandwich with one hand and sorting the massive box of M&Ms just arrived via FedEx into color-coded jars with the other. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday night, he reflects as he drops a handful of red candies into the jar labeled 'Agent Romanoff.' Then again, there are definitely better. He stuffs in the last bite of sandwich and wipes his fingers on his Batman pajamas before sliding down to the floor and tackling the job two-handed. Even as he does so, the front door bangs, and Steve Rogers enters, ruddy-cheeked, bright-eyed and every blond cowlick cemented firmly into place as he grabs his freshly dry-cleaned spandex undies from the hall closet and fires off questions into his S.H.I. cell-phone. Banner wiggles his fingers at him as he strides down the hall, popping in a green M&M as he counts.

_One... Two..._

Rogers' voice halts abruptly, but only for a moment.

"I'm sorry,' he says. "I've got a slight problem at this end, sir. I'm going to have to call you back.'

Banner can almost hear the phone snap shut.

_Three..._

Captain America, never mind his other virtues, is nothing if not prompt. Banner pops another M&M into his mouth and looks up, chewing.

"Mmflggbt?' he inquires, around a mouthful of chocolate.

"What,' his room-mate says, holding up the punctured, crumpled sheet of paper in one hand, and the slim-tipped steel dart in the other, "is this?'

"A note,' Banner says. "And an arrow? I know how you hate it when anyone messes with your stuff, so I left them where they were.' He drops a limited-edition gold-starred candy in the jar marked ''Cap'. "Don't feel bad. He took my pillows.'

"Your...' Rogers' jaw locks, his cowlicks positively vibrating with the force even through the sleek, shining layers of gel. "Did you not even _try _to stop him?'

"I wasn't here. I had to run to the deli: we were out of cheese again, and before you ask, of course I locked the door behind me, but he's a master assassin, and probably has pinfeathers instead of chest hair besides. He doesn't use doors.'

Rogers lowered himself to his favorite armchair, then at the note.

"He took my shield,' he said. "Agent Barton broke in, and took my shield. Off my door. Off my door. Without asking, and...' His eyes narrow in confusion. "Your pillows? I mean, alright, the shield is one-of-a-kind; I can understand him wanting to borrow it, but why would he take your pillows?'

"No idea.' Banner pushes the table back and heaves himself to his feet. `Maybe Agent Romanoff murdered all of his; she's in town, after all, and she did in his bed and his spare-room futon last time. What does the note say?'

'You didn't read it?'

"No, of course not.' It's a test – a bit of an absent-minded one, given the circumstances, but a test nevertheless, and Banner knows exactly how he is expected to answer. He did read it, of course, but it wouldn't be politic to say so. Or nice. Banner isn't so much concerned with the politic, but he does make the effort on the nice, and never fails, besides, to remember what the rest of the world seems never to have processed at all: that Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America, super soldier, patriotic icon and global hero or no, is still only and effectively a teenager. A teenager possessed of that fundamental and defining characteristic of all teenagers, no matter how temporally displaced – the tendency to see things in black-and-white-and-good-and-evil, never mind red-white-and-blue, and who would like to believe that his friends have the inherent sensitivity (and manners) to Stay Out Of His Stuff. The Big Guy scorns such niceties of course, and often loudly... Fortunately, he is easily soothed (or at least stifled) with such things as green M&Ms. Banner pops a mouthful hastily as _He_ opens _his_. Theirs. Whatever.

"I'm sure he'll bring it back,' he says, once he's swallowed. "Undented, even. Did he say where he took it?'

"No.' Rogers examines the note. "But he'd better return it soon. I'm headed out to Nicaragua tomorrow, and I'm going to need it.' He tosses the arrow on the table and turns the paper over. "Never mind the fact that he and I are going to have words. Again. Friends don't just break into other friends' houses and steal their armor and equipment off their bedroom doors. Or at least they didn't in my day.'

"No,' Banner agrees, dropping a blue M&M, precisely the shade of the Norse god (small g: any room-mate of Captain America must always and perforce remember the small g) Thor's eyes into the third of the long line of jars. "I imagine they didn't. They just broke into other people's houses and stole the inhabitants out of their bedrooms and chucked them into concentration camps.'

"The people who did that sort of thing,' Roger says austerely, 'were not my friends.' He tossed the note aside and dug his cell-phone out, dialing. "Ah. Yes, sir. Rogers here. Sorry about that. Bit of a furor on the home-front. No, but I'm sure it will be, in plenty of time for take off tomor...' Banner looks over his bare shoulder from the kitchen door as the younger man pales almost audibly. "What? But.. You can't, sir, I mean... I can't! No, I don't have plans, and of course I understand that it's a critical situation, but...' He swallows. "Of course. Three hours. I'll be there.'

"Problem?' Banner inquires as he hangs up, redialing frantically.

"No, no. No problem at all. Pick up, Barton, you thieving pigeon, or I'll... Fine. Fine. You're out of range. Fabulous. Where's that list. Ah. Agent Romanoff. Rogers here; tell your purloining paramour that he'd better be back with my property in sixty minutes or... Oh for... NO, I do not want to leave a message! No, wait. I do. I have to leave in three hours for Nicaragua, and if I don't have my shield by then... I'll... I'll...' He sputters frantically. Banner leans against the door and watches as he throws the phone aside and drops his head in his hands. "He took my shield, Bruce,' he says miserably. "Without asking! What am I going to do now?'

"You need to learn how to relax, man,' Banner observes. "Take it from me: repression's really not good for your gut.'

Rogers just moans. Banner comes to sit beside him, on the arm of the chair, and rubs his tense, massive shoulders.

"You're more than the shield,' he says gently. "And the suit, and the contents of that bottle, no matter what that idiot Stark said. When are you going to realize that I assign him the brown M&Ms because he's full of shit?' The patting turns into a firm, one-armed hug. Surprisingly, or not, the much bigger man leans into him. Banner considers ruffling his hair, but refrains, reaching over to pick up the abandoned note instead.

'Drinks,' he reads. "Provisions. Fuzzy socks. Snow goggles. Ear muffs. Thermal toe warmers. Portable lightning rod. Flaming arrowheads. Sparkly lipstick. Steve's shield.'

"What?' Rogers grabs the note. "I didn't get that the first time around!"

"It's on the back, see, in Tash's handwriting. It must be the list of things they'd need wherever they were going. And it still doesn't explain why they swiped my pillows. Wait, where are you going?'

"It's rush hour,' Rogers says, grabbing his coat. "And they're headed somewhere cold, from the look of things. That can only mean one thing: they'll be stopping at Starbucks' to pick up Agent Romanoff's favorite cinnamon latte, and with the line-ups... We might be able to track them, if not catch them.'

"We?'

"I'll meet you there.' He glances back as he reaches for the doorknob, and can't help but grin. "Nice jammies. Did you pick me up the set with Robin?'

"Are we actively pandering to our friends' dubious fantasies now, then?'

"Of course not. I would never condone that kind of speculative degeneracy.'

"Uh 're on your bed.'

Rogers actually chuckles, even as he bounds out the door and down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two hours earlier_

The pale tangle of light wrestles with the folds of the makeshift curtains, pinning them into submission as it slips the grasp of the overcast sky and pounces triumphantly on the occupants of the high, small room. Said occupants pay it no mind, caught up as they are in a rather less metaphorical tangle, and even after they collapse in a sweaty, undignified pile, it takes them more than a few moments to process anything but the renewed necessity for oxygen.

"Mmmm,' the smaller occupant purrs when she manages it, and sits up, shaking the metaphorical fire out of her eyes. The jewels of her eyes, Clint Barton thinks, and self-consciously catching himself- yet again – descending past the brink of such inane and badly poetic madness, fails yet again at his attempts to recover. Natasha Romanoff flops down beside him, kicking the duvet aside and throwing out her slender, pale arms to cool herself.

"Hot,' she excuses herself. Clint smiles at her. It is a lopsided, endearing smile: small but genuine, and the blush that overwhelms her at the nakedly soft expression directed her way nearly overwhelms _him_.

"Stop that,' they both say simultaneously, and laugh simultaneously, and retreat together into their embarrassment even as they re-knot themselves. Clint blushes as the Black Widow kisses his ear gently, and yelps -loudly – as she follows it up with a not-quite-vicious bite.

"OW! What the hell did you do that for?'

"Just following form.' She burrows into his strong, tanned neck. "I have that reputation to maintain, after all. Fuck, this is just...'

"Nice?' he suggests as she pauses, and feels her lips curve against his throat. _I would welcome such a death, _he thinks, and then..._ Fuck. I've gone pathetic. Next you know I'll be telling her I love her._

"Beg your pardon?' the Black Widow says politely, and Clint Barton freezes in panic.

_I did NOT say that out loud. Please, God. Tell me I did not say that out lou..._

"Oh for... You just have to ruin everything, don't you?'

_**Fuck**_.

"I didn't mean it,' Clint babbles. "I didn't, Tasha, I swear. It was just the moment, I was just caught up in the moment, I ...'

She vaults out of the bed, and flings open the door. Clint's babbling ceases abruptly as the vision in crimson drapes and chainmail beyond squeaks just as abruptly, and claps its huge hands over its piercing blue and godly eyes.

"If you're going to interrupt, your Highness' Natasha snaps, stomping back to the piles of abandoned clothes by the foot of the bed and yanking her archer's t-shirt over her head, 'you'd best be prepared for the consequences.'

"I did knock,' the vision says, though it doesn't remove its hands. 'My apologies, friend Clint. I saw nothing: I swear it on my honor!'

"Yes you did,' Clint tosses the duvet back all the way and hauls on his sweat pants. "And I'd challenge you to a duel for the privilege, save for the fact that now you have to manage all of eternity with the knowledge that I get to screw her and you never will.' He shoved his feet in the Big Bird slippers that Bruce Banner had gotten him for his birthday, and tossed Natasha her thong. "What can we do for you, oh Mighty Thor?'

"I need someone killed,' Thor says, removing his hands. 'Or rather, several someones.'

"We've taken a long weekend.' Natasha hauls on the thong. "What part of 'off the grid' doesn't Fury understand?'

'Commander Fury has no part in my request. And it _is _my request. I have dire need, Friend Clint and Lady Natasha, of a pair of heroes, armed yet with the minds and instincts of villains, and no artificial or magically induced skills that our enemies might employ to their advantage.'

"Huh?'

"My enemies,' Thor translates. "Or rather, Asgard's enemies, have an artifact that would render encroaching armies both divine and arcane as helpless mortals. Permanent helpless mortals, and neither my divine or arcane armies are eager to act, as Friend Stark puts it, 'laboratory experiments.' They are willing, of course, if there are no other alternatives – the structural integrity, as the Great Green Horror puts it, of all of the universes are at stake -'

"The Great Green _Horror_? Does he know you call him that?'

'But naturally,' Thor continues, determinedly undeterred, 'they would prefer that we explore all of our other options first.'

"Naturally.' Clint's tone is only a little sardonic. "And as Tash and I are already helpless mortals and have nothing to lose but our lives...'

"Hardly helpless,' Thor protests, though his sunny, hopeful (quite calculatingly so, Barton thinks sourly) smile quite belies the token protest. "That is why I am here. And all of Creation is at stake, as I said.'

"Will we get paid?' Natasha inquires, rummaging for clean socks, and at the god's injured look... 'What? A girl's gotta eat.'

"Paydays are in the third drawer there, babe. I stocked up when you e-mailed me that you were coming home.'

"Yum.' She dives with alacrity. "So?'

"Father has authorized a bounty, yes,' Thor said. "Though not in pecuniary measures. If you succeed...' He paused. "He will bestow upon you a favor.'

"What kind of favor?'

"That would depend on the favor you ask for.'

The room is suddenly very quiet. Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff look at each other.

"Let me get this straight,' Agent Romanoff says. "Odin, the All-Father... is offering us, as payment for services rendered... a blank check?'

"A joint blank check?' Agent Barton inquires. "Or individual ones?'

"I already know what I want,' Agent Romanoff says grimly. "Loki's head. On a fucking gold-plated, diamond and ruby encrusted silver platter.'

"I want his head,' her lover says. "You can have the rest of him to play with.'

"Before or after the fact?'

"The check is not quite_ that_ blank, my friends. There is such a thing as family loyalty, however misplaced.'

"He's not going to reform, you know. He may have been inside my head, but doors open both ways, and you just can't fix batshit fucking insane.'

"I am aware, Friend Clint,' is all Thor says. Clint sighs, sinking down onto the edge of the bed.

"Fine,' he says, with sudden tired unenthusiasm. "Fine. Where are we going, what will we need, and most importantly, what's waiting for us there?.'

"The very heights of Asgard,' the god says "Warm clothes, and time-eating demons.'

"Literal demons?'

"There are no other kind, Lady Natasha. Those who would tell you otherwise are liars or fools.' Thor scratches his chin. "You will need some kind of sturdy conveyance. The heights are steep, and the known paths predictably and unequivocally treacherous.

'"Right.' The Black Widow reaches for a scrap of paper and a pencil. "How long do you estimate we'll have to complete the assignment?'

"No more than twelve hours, by your mortal reckoning.'

"Starting now, or when we get there?'

'Time-eating demons have a way of making such estimations unreliable at best, Lady Natasha, and once their agenda has proceeded past the certain point, dimensionally irrelevant.'

'We're stopping at Starbucks first,' the assassin says firmly. "I am not headed off to the frozen depths... heights... Whatever... of hell without a full and steaming thermos of cinnamon latte to sustain me.'

"So what kind of sturdy conveyance are we talking?' Clint asks as he flings open his closet and begins to browse the stacks and piles of incipient death within. "Exactly?'

'"If we're traveling the road, and mountain passages less taken,' Natasha says, 'we're going to need something like a toboggan, at the very least.' She pulls a drawer open. "Are we actually going to meet your father, Thor? Because if we're going to meet him, I'm going to need an appropriate outfit. Leathers great, but the perfect lipstick is always a challenge.'

"I don't think Sports World makes a toboggan that could survive the kind of mountain passes we're talking, Tash. If I had a few hours I could rig something up, but...' Barton pauses, struck. 'Ooh. I just had a great idea!'

"Excellent.' Thor beams. 'You shall need all of those you can muster, Friend Clint...'


End file.
